Coachella 2009

It's not Coachella's job to fix the economy. Their only charge is to make sure their festival is a must-see, bear or bull market. However, the buzz leading up to this past weekend seemed to suggest that 2009 was the Coachella You Could Afford to Miss. Bonnaroo bossed up with the Bruce Springsteen and a reunited Phish, and the two of them could easily fill 72 consecutive hours by themselves. Lollapalooza has the annual advantage of not being in the fucking desert. As for Coachella? Well, argue with Paul McCartney's rep all you want, but dude's still a Beatle. That's a big deal. The Killers? Well, as far as really popular contemporary bands go, you could do way worse. The Cure? Well, they haven't been too far under the radar since they headlined in 2004 and even then, Robert Smith caught feelings because people appeared to care about Radiohead way more. Meanwhile, last year's last-minute addition was none other than Prince, while Coachella had to scramble after Amy Winehouse's not-at-all-expected cancellation and got... Devendra Banhart and Joss Stone.

On the other hand, with more people than ever not having a job to go back to on Monday, 2009 might've been the best year to go (to quote Craig Finn, there's plenty of people with "their first day off in forever, man"). And while Coachella lacked sizzle from its headliners, it brought arguably its most thorough top-to-bottom lineup to date. Even during the early afternoon, finding a half-hour for a pizza break was no joke. Here's our report from the Empire Polo Fields...

We started off Coachella trekking to the far-side Sahara dance tent, where we were treated to Brazilian techno producer Gui Boratto playing cuts from his new Take My Breath Away without much edit. The hippieish crowd camping out at the Sahara for the likes of the Crystal Method weren't sure whether to actually dance to his Spartan beats. He even closed with "Opus 17", ending on a somber note for a guy who normally trades in the kaleidoscopic. Still, Boratto-- in his dapper hat, accompanied by ever-present corporate sponsored Heineken keg can-- handled a dead Friday afternoon set time like a champ. --Mike Orme

The Hold Steady rarely look less than ecstatic to be playing, but something felt special about them copping the time slot that more or less announces, "Okay, here's where you start seeing the good bands." Yet even if the Hold Steady are about as close to a sure thing as you're liable to see these days, non-stop touring had put some mileage on Craig Finn's voice. His band was game as usual, and Finn's larynx being a little more charred than usual is no dealbreaker when he's rolling through something of a Hold Steady Greatest Hits primer (see their new live compilation, A Positive Rage). Still, it would've been nice to get a "Chillout Tent"/ "Most People Are DJs" segue to acknowledge the bizarre decision to place the first aid area smack against State Farm's Scratch Tent. Haven't the dehydrated suffered enough? --Ian Cohen

Los Campesinos! again proved themselves worthy of superfluous punctuation, even while apologizing profusely for a perceived "shaky start" (a sentiment not shared by the rapt crowd). Upon regaining confidence, singer Gareth Campesinos!, sporting a black Wedding Present T-shirt, led the group through a torrent of gems. It might be easy to dismiss the group due to their over-excitability, but the stunts they pull and the big fast loud happy songs they write lead directly to a sense of them focusing a performative aspect in the now, rather than in fey careerist ambitions (or, eww, nostalgic ambitions in the past, for that matter). --Mike Orme

The criminally underattended Bug set injected grit and grime (figuratively and musicologically) into the early evening air. Kevin Martin began alone, prepping the crowd for the terror of Warrior Queen, who stepped out a song or so into the set in a torrid display of rhymes, screams, and arms akimbo. Rapping into the sunset in one of those short, black, gold-printed sweaterdresses, she acted as mouthpiece for Martin's hard, dub-filtered urban hymns. --Mike Orme

Crystal Castles

Look, it sucks to reward people for acting like assholes-- and really, just about any time Crystal Castles appear in our newswire, it's because they pulled a total asshole move. But regardless of what actually happened in Dallas this past week, I gotta admit it made me interested in what the fuss was about. I'm still wondering. They made a killer record, but Crystal Castles, at least this time out, were a worthless concert experience. We'll overlook the fact that they took the stage 20 minutes late (I guess it's easier to acquire a kick drum amp in the desert than Dallas), and just focus on how their stage show pretty much consists of the one dude reenacting his album cover pose while playing the backing tracks, during which Alice Glass vocally fronts like the lead singers from Deerhoof and Ponytail choking each other out. Plus their light show looked no different than the LCD display from my high school lunchroom turned on its side. You know, in light of the proliferation of "Crystal" bands, it was easy to make fun of Crystal Method as being the old, odd men out, but passing by their performance in the same tent four hours later, you actually got a feeling that they were interested in rocking a crowd. Crystal Castles could learn a lot about people skills from those guys. --Ian Cohen

I'm dealing with the reality that as a primarily internet-based music writer, I have absolutely no idea how popular a band really is these days. And that was even before Kings of Leon got on the cover of Rolling Stone. This became even more evident during Beirut's performance: their records seem to come standard with cushy spots on year-end lists, and I've generally found they've made inroads with people who consider themselves music fans but aren't really tied to following Metacritic scores. (read: people who aren't on the internet 24/7.)

So I guess once you reach that point, you're actually really fucking popular, because the crowd was just completely locked in from the moment Zach Condon took the stage. Beirut's songs tend to bleed together for me, but damned if the crowd wasn't hanging on every one of his brassy melismatics like he was Chris Carrabba or some shit. It's here where I sort of had a guess why these guys have struck such a chord with listeners: yes, it's easy to chalk it up to the romanticizing of music that could hardly be further removed from our existence, but by channeling the community inherent in the folk styles Condon loves so dearly, he creates a whole new, different kind of community that's comforting in light of increasing fragmentation. --Ian Cohen

Girl Talk

Night Ripper seemingly came out of nowhere, but after the release of Feed the Animals, people were finally prepared to discuss the merits of Gregg Gillis' musicality. But in the end, it's simple: you know when you're just trolling through shuffle mode on your iPod when you're at the gym or something and the exact song you want to hear pops up? That's the feeling Gillis captures, and it's fucking exhilarating. For about 20 minutes.

Me, I can't get past half of Feed the Animals these days without getting mentally exhausted, but in a live setting, you're kept more off balance, which is why Girl Talk provided probably my favorite show of the weekend from an act I don't often listen to on record. While Gillis is certainly a name these days, he doesn't really have any hits, so much as what are considered the consensus choices ("Smash Your Head", for example). So he's basically free to do whatever, and of course it's predictably awesome in the beginning. I had no idea I could get so excited hearing "Ruff Ryders Anthem" again or get more mileage out of Lord Willin', but once again, that whole iPod shuffle feeling-- it's somehow more exciting if it feels like a matter of chance than choice. --Ian Cohen

Leonard Cohen

When Leonard Cohen declares "I need to see you naked/ In your body and your thought" during "Ain't No Cure For Love", the finality of his vocal comes down hard on the whole desert. He might as well be the only voice here. We'll bear through a Kenny G saxophone all day and night in order to get to Lenny Cohen's truths; his curious forays into synthesizers and soul the manifestations of a personality that will stop at nothing to tell you, in a hundred divine ways, that he is sad as hell. Screw this second stage stuff-- get that man a main stage! --Mike Orme

Moz obliged the crowd on Friday, half of whom seemed like they were in town on a lark from either Beverly Hills or Chino, by playing Smiths hits like "This Charming Man" and "Girlfriend in a Coma" early in the set. He's been cultivating an altogether more macho image, but Mr. Morrissey acted every bit the diva onstage. "I can smell burning flesh, and I hope some of it is human." The man even walked off for a time in consternation for the smells of some barbecue, but brought himself back out after a time. Fussy, yes, but what do you expect for a guy who still has the energy to do the heart-on-sleeve thing for thousands? He got shit from the blogs for this episode-- which would have been justified had he stayed offstage-- but that's why he's a star. --Mike Orme

Macca played on past and future in the desert, paying tribute to fallen comrades whilst inviting a DJ to open for him Friday night. Fellow Beatles George Harrison and John Lennon got their dues with a ukulele-driven "Something" and a medley of "A Day in the Life" and "Give Peace a Chance", and Paul informed the crowd that the day was the 11th anniversary of first wife Linda McCartney's passing. What, at 66, does McCartney have left to share with us? Here, upwards of 35 songs-- some corny, some seminal-- culled from a catalogue that's a huge part of pop history. --Mike Orme

SATURDAY

Liars

The Coachella second stages are a bit of a crapshoot, especially considering the encroaching main-stage sound. To really enjoy a second-stage act necessitates being near the front of the crowd. Yet despite having Joss Stone's monstrosity at our backs, Liars carried off their Drum's Not Dead-type drone admirably, assuaging the collective desert hangovers. A drunken female splayed out on the ground outside the Mojave tent declared Liars the ZOMG best performance so far, and while she was wrong, she correctly pegged the sentiment of the noisy, belligerent set. --Mike Orme

Blitzen Trapper

Portland's Blitzen Trapper began with a whimper rather than a bang, with all of their members onstage soundchecking harmonies into their mics to an expectant, rather large crowd. Their down-home, electrified folk lent itself to a performance that consisted of evangelizing heartfelt lyrics and an appealingly long-gone aesthetic; it's not the sort of thing designed to blow away a mid-afternoon crowd. To that end, the band achieved their unstated goals. --Mike Orme

Ida Maria

I wasn't surprised to find Ida Maria's Fortress Around My Heart was getting a domestic release-- it's hard to hear "Oh My God" and not be completely smitten. It feels like the only reason she's not a star on the level of, say, Lykke Li or Kate Nash is because she just hasn't gotten the right sort of major-label push yet.

As such, as enjoyable as Ida can be on stage (Fortress is still a very uneven and occasionally plastic record), there's still something... incredibly protracted it about it all that seems designed to appeal to an ideal of What Guys Want-- listen to the way she shrieks at the end of "Stella"! Look how she comes oh so close to rocking her dress off during the end of "Oh My God"! She likes to get naked! And drunk! And has a song called "I Like You So Much Better When You Are Naked"! And indeed, the tent for Ida Maria had arguably more testosterone than the Mastodon one would have several hours later. Mission accomplished, I suppose. --Ian Cohen

Safe to say my relationship with Drive-By Truckers has changed quite a bit since I moved from Athens-- I was a Bulldog almost exactly in the span of time between the release of the outstanding Decoration Day and Brighter Than Creation's Dark (their weakest New West album by a wide stretch of U.S. 72). I figured that nationwide, they were treated the same as they were in the Classic City: three-hour marathon sets, hushed reverence for their lyrics, arguments about Isbell vs. Hood vs. Cooley that always threaten to end in violence or at least a drunken stupor. Come to find out that in Los Angeles, most people vaguely remember them as a band that played with Hold Steady (this is true), and then remember, oh yeah, they actually went and saw the shows they did with motherfucking Art Brut instead.

So a 45-minute set in the desert figured to be a good as a time as any to reacquaint myself-- it didn't hurt that it was the first time in ages I saw more than three people in the same place with pastel polo shirts and Croakies (Vineyard Vines, what's good?). It didn't hurt either that Brighter Than Creation's Dark marked a reinvigoration for a band that seemed tired of itself just two years previous. Of course they killed it, but DBT is an interesting festival band-- they solo, but rarely jam; and while their characters do more than a fair share of drinking and drugging, the occasions are few in which it can be considered celebratory. Still, their setlist was something sturdy, balancing Mike Cooley's slick-talking rave-ups ("Marry Me", "Self-Destructive Zone") with Patterson Hood's moodier, heavier material ("Lookout Mountain", "The Righteous Path"). Initially, I was displeased that they wasted time on one of Hood's weakest songs, but "Hell No I Ain't Happy" makes a lot of sense with the Truckers closing the set with Jim Carroll's "People Who Died". Oddly enough, it sounded like the most upbeat song the Truckers will ever do. --Ian Cohen

Playing that god awful "SNL" set might have actually paid off in an odd way for TV on the Radio-- as it turns out, just about everyone ended up sounding like complete shit this season, and if you heard that TVOTR totally doesn't translate outside of Dave Sitek's studio, well, maybe that was just misguided speculation.

I didn't know one way or the other, since TVOTR is probably the biggest act in the major-indie stratosphere that I haven't seen yet. And the verdict is…Studio Band. There's a lot going on with these songs onstage, much like the records themselves, but while Sitek has proven masterful at organizing sounds into a rich, dense atmosphere, openers "The Wrong Way" and "Golden Age" bogged together in mud rainbows as he faced his amp, obliviously tremolo-strumming away. Too much bass, that's their problem: not in the way where, say, the Bug's woofers hit you right in the solar plexus. More in the, "Dude, you really need to get a new car stereo" way. Whatever mobility "Red Dress" or "Dancin' Choose" or "Crying" had on Dear Science was canceled out by an upended mix that stranded a game brass section and vital drumming amidst blown-out low end that hovered comical and (mostly) unrevealed like the Cloverfield monster. It's hard to keep "Wolf Like Me" or "Young Liars" down, but they're a rare breed of TVOTR that have enough momentum as is to be subjected to their live M.O. of upping the BPMs. But even though closer "Staring at the Sun" is one of TVOTR's oldest and most-beloved songs, it's also one of the sparest, and hearing a nearly nine-deep lineup plow through it, you'd think it was the first time they ever tried it live. --Ian Cohen

Amanda Palmer is not, shall we say, a great singer, but she sells every bit of her Brechtian punk. She performed a mixture of her own songs and Dresden Dolls tracks, all in her signature minimalist style (she had only cellist Zoe Keating for support), yet she still blew through tracks like "Coin Operated Boy" and "Girl Anachronism" with abandon. You get the feeling she's on some Courtney Love-ish cult of egotism, but at least it comes off as much-needed personality: She stopped mid-song to ask, sort of dumbfoundedly, "Oh, you guys wanna clap?"; later, she took an iSight photo of the crowd. "Look awesome" was her only direction.

Palmer ended her set on a bizarre and sort of completely incredible note by supermanning a full-on crowd surf across the entire Gobi tent, soundtracked by "Flight of the Valkyries", before emerging at the sound booth in back with, somehow, a ukulele to lead a sing-along of, of all goddamned possible things, Radiohead's "Creep". You can't make this stuff up! --Mike Orme

Did you read Robin Pecknold's Twitter right after this set ended? Besides almost completely compromising the idea of these guys as being something other than a product of the internet age, it's about the saddest thing I've read in my short history of Twittering. (Mostly because I only follow Shaq, Diddy and Jim Jones.) Initially, it felt like these guys got the perfect slot: Outdoor stage as the sun set on the Empire Polo Field. Their performance at the 2008 Pitchfork Festival was something I wished more people shared-- they imbued their beautiful harmonies with heretofore-unrevealed sinew and flippancy (referencing "Simpsons" trivia like "McGarnigle").

Instead, Fleet Foxes' set loosely followed the narrative of Local H's "All the Kids Are Right". You could run "Sun Giant" through a tracheotomy and it would probably still sound gorgeous, but the muffled mixing the Foxes were subjected to clearly made them uncomfortable. Throughout the festival, the main stage bands were prone to drowning out what was going on at the Outdoor stage (Joss Stone was absolutely dominating Liars), and in one of the most unfair lowlights, an aching solo performance of "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" had to compete with Thievery Corporation's needlessly bumping wine-and-cheese-hop. Fleet Foxes have a pretty underrated sense of humor, and their stage banter is rarely less than entertaining, but as they asked the crowd what they wanted with their remaining five minutes, you could tell we weren't getting both "Mykonos" and "Blue Ridge Mountains". We were right, "Mykonos" sounded pretty great, but you could tell they wanted out as soon as possible. --Ian Cohen

Band of Horses

Ha ha-- wait, didn't they just play the Outdoor Stage? I always found the Fleet Foxes/Band of Horses comparisons as misguided as the Band of Horses/My Morning Jacket ones, but if you ever needed to get a full understanding of just how different these bands are, it was manifested in the initially dubious decision to have them go back-to-back. While Fleet Foxes are informed by rock music, if they're getting aurally dominated by Thievery Corporation, there isn't a hell of a lot they can do about it. "Ragged Wood" isn't necessarily helped by playing it louder.

Band of Horses, though-- that whole idea of being a country-rock act on Cease to Begin is no joke. Sporting a three-guitar lineup (featuring Taylor Ramsey) and a some seriously grizzled, late-period Gregg Allman dudes on keys and drums, their 40 minute-set distilled their two records into a rollicking steinhoist, drunk on enthusiasm and energy. This is Band of Horses! The twangier numbers pulled from Cease to Begin ("Marry Song", "General Specific") took on new life as tricked-out honky-tonk blues, while "The Funeral" and "The Great Salt Lake" maintained every bit of open-air majesty despite being played a little more to the lighter-wavers. A great affirmation from a band I was starting to underrate. --Ian Cohen

Junior Boys' Jeremy Greenspan wields his Telecaster like fire, burning his fierce sell of the Boys' third Begone Dull Care into the crowd like the Ark at the end of Raiders. A lot of folks cleared out early in order to get a seat for M.I.A., but the diehards who remained received the Boys' beats along with the incongruity of a huge flaming metal dragon statue outside the tent flaring up next to the set. That new record may be terminally front-loaded, but that front end plowed into Coachella on Saturday with full and terminal force. After playing through new cuts like "Work" and "Parallel Lines", the Boys capped an exhausting, expansive set with the fitting "Under the Sun". --Mike Orme

In some ways, M.I.A. arrived to Coachella 2009 in the same position she was in last year: Kala was the last piece of new music anyone had heard from her, and most people were looking forward to "Paper Planes" so they could throw their PDAs in the air in time with the gunshots of the chorus. Of course, in the past year, "Paper Planes" got heard by millions more people, which means that she's now Coachella Stage status rather than a must-see Gobi Tent show.

That, and if she decides to bring a bunch of people on stage, they're probably not going to boot her off after six songs. Unfortunately, Maya forgot the difference between being a star and being a festival headliner. If you happened to be in the first couple of rows, I'm sure it was crazy-- all sorts of interaction, bucket drumming, crazy blacklight costumes taken out of hock from the "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See" video.

But maybe she was better off in one of the desert tents, because the rest of the crowd seemed like they could hardly be bothered until she closed with "Paper Planes". Chalk it up to the show itself being less "Pull Up the People" and more defensive and self-absorbed. We were subject to all the things that can get annoying about Maya: brittle beats, her lazy performance on the mic, and what some could perceive as a Slumdog-like fetishization of poverty-- her backing video was the kind of stuff that makes you want to subscribe to Fader just to cancel it. And that goddamn airhorn her DJ played incessantly. But I don't know, maybe there's something continually subversive about her steal-from-the-poor/give-to-the-rich thing, showing up a half hour late for people who paid a lot of money to see her perform. --Ian Cohen

Jenny Lewis played at an awful time, overlapping slightly with the Killers' headlining set, but indie's reigning queen impressed the crowd with renditions of her smoky country tracks. You think she isn't moving into classic 70s rock territory: At the end, all her bandmates got up on stage together in group-hug mode like the cast at the end of an "SN"L taping. For Lewis' part, she rocked a Michael Jackson hat and, clad in white, looked a bit like an orderly in a MJ costume. --Mike Orme

Coachella has no qualms about bringing back repeat business, so a great way to kill time while milling about during set breaks involves checking out lineups from years past. It's cheaper than drinking. Clear example of what makes this stuff fun: Go to the 2004 poster, and you'll see the Killers at the damn near bottom, their name rendered in a font smaller than that of noted festival luminaries Eyedea & Abilities and Sage Francis. Fast forward five years later, and, well-- just keep fighting the good fight Dear and the Headlights, and this can be your life.

The sort of naked ambition that got the Killers to this point has been much ridiculed, particularly since Brandon Flowers is like a far more boring Kanye West in regards to his tendency to pop off about any old bullshit in the name of rock star posturing. But damn if the Killers didn't actually come to make a lot of sense closing Saturday after a string of up-and-comers.

At first, I laughed at their decision to lead off with "Human" and "Somebody Told Me" since they still could go on for an hour-plus, but you know what-- they still had "When You Were Young" left to play. And "Change Your Mind". And "Smile Like You Mean It". And "Mr. Brightside". Sure, Flowers' stage persona cuts Bono-like earnestness with Kanye-style cod-showmanship, and his backing band might be among the least visually charismatic this side of Coldplay, and the momentum could not have come to a more clenching halt than when they went with deeper album cuts. But damn if those five songs you like didn't get the crowd going from the window to the wall. And if the Killers don't seem thorough enough to cop a day-ending spot at Coachella, let's not forget that last year's equivalent was Jack Johnson. --Ian Cohen

Mastodon will likely always be subject to "Oh, they're just metal for people who aren't metal" barbs from here on out and, wrong or right, it's understandable-- getting your wig pushed back by the bassist from System of a Down is totally not metal, not to mention being the most metal act at Coachella when Rahzel and Mike Patton are arguably next in line.

But then again, Coachella has to think about the bottom line, and if I'm going to be privy to 10-minute prog jams about Russian czars, I'll take these guys over the Decemberists. Having never seen Mastodon live, it was somewhat surprising how no-frills their stage-show was. Maybe I was fruitlessly hoping they'd arrive cloaked in dry ice, pounding out the intro to "Sleeping Giant", when instead they pretty much played Crack the Skye in exact order with footage of Rasputin and whatnot backing them up.

Nonetheless, it's tough to deny how powerful Mastodon are when freed from their Brendan O'Brien tastefulness-- while Skye's tracks go heavier on the vocals than their previous work, unaffected by mic processing, it goes a little further away from the Ozzfest stuff. --Ian Cohen

This show and Glass Candy's are the most likely to be confused due to their mildly similar conceits, adjacent scheduling, and presence of girls, but Gang Gang Dance definitely won the battle of the loft-party groups tonight. We got Liz Bougatsos yelling into her assorted percussion, plusing Balearic beats, and Kate Bush-like melodies. Halfway through the set, a guy in a ghost costume showed up onstage to wave a flag around. They ran through "House Jam", but also tried on new songs, to which some dudes up front implored Bougatsos to "be more wraithlike". Not sure that would have been possible. --Mike Orme

SUNDAY

Mexican Institute of Sound

I heard "Let's Get Ready to Rumble" as I walked into the festival and I really hope it was Mexican Institute of Sound bumping the jock jam. Between M.I.S., Juan Son, and other assorted acts bringing out records, I've got an inkling it's going to be a good year for Mexico and indie. This Mexico City group combines traditional music with big, happy electronic beats, as DJ Camilo Lara samples corners of Mexican culture like a sort of Chicano Beastie Boy. --Mike Orme

Supermayer

Supermayer also received light attendance at Coachella, which is a shame considering a) They're, well, a supergroup, and b) Their outsized Vangelis synthesizers would pair well with fans' notions of dance at the Sahara tent. Like Boratto, Superpitcher and Michael Mayer re-affirmed my belief that a French Connection porkpie with a side of boat shoes is required DJ wear. The guys played around the stock Sahara tent lights, which shimmered diffidently to their set, including the off-and-on uses of mouth trumpet and melodian. Techno music fans, you don't see that everyday! --Mike Orme

It's easy to take No Age for granted when you live in Los Angeles-- miss a show and they'll be back in a month or less. You know what you'll get though: Their teenage fans moshing in a show of solidarity with a 1990s of which they have no memory, and Dean Spunt sounding shaky when he sings. But here's the thing about No Age: It's not the songs that made these guys L.A.'s most widely accepted indie. Even fan-favorite "Eraser" isn't an easy song to sing along with. Pitchfork's Amanda Petrusich described Nouns as "fertile," and I have yet to find a better adjective to describe what these guys do. Not in any sonic sense, but No Age seems to tap into a primal need in their listeners to feel a creative impulse and have a sense of being part of something. It's not awe-inspiring, just inspiring. In the best way possible, you watch No Age and think, "fuck, I can do that." And, ideally, you do it.

And whether it was a stage display that somehow cut through the blinding sun or the realization that they, holy shit, were playing Coachella, No Age somehow managed to somehow put on a show that fed into that urge and yet draw in people who may have just found these guys on year-ends and wondered what the big deal was. Teens on bad pot danced with no regard to rhythm. Other kids who just wanted to feel like they belonged moshed. Even Randy Randall, he of the constant shoegaze and flannel drapery, did a table leap that could almost pass for a moment of release. It seems almost pointless to single out what tracks they culled from Weirdo Rippers or Nouns, because it's almost always the same set-- "Everybody's Down", "Neck Escaper", "Teenage Creeps". But even with a 1:45 timeslot, the crowd felt like they were there to see No Age, and not the band that just happened to be in that tent at that time. --Ian Cohen

Okkervil River

You know what you're getting from Okkervill by now: Will Sheff being so literary he should smoke a pipe, the enthusiasm of the performances belie the meta-textual complexities, and his band still is dressing like the Arcade Fire to an increasingly worrisome degree.

Still, even if the Stage Names/Stand-In one-two left little fourth wall to bust through anymore, there's still plenty to chew on with this mid-00s meat and potatoes indie on a visceral and mental level. Is "Black" still one of the most moving songs of the past couple of years if it still sorta sounds like Counting Crows? What about "Pop Lie": "The liars they lie in their pop songs/ And you're lying when you sing along." Does Sheff want us to sing along, and if not, why not when it's all too easy to? Is the end of "John Smyth Sails" a reverent piss-take or a malevolent one? Does any of this even matter, or does Okkervil want us to rock out as much as they want to? All questions aside (like, by the next album, he's gonna start talking about something else, right?), the band held serve on the Coachella Stage, even if its roomy confines draped over them like an oversized icy white. And kudos are due for throwing in "A Girl in Port" when most bands steered clear of their slow jams, regardless of their quality. --Ian Cohen

The Gaslight Anthem

The Gaslight Anthem are so sincurrrr. Beyond the fact that their 2008 breakthrough The '59 Sound was packed with a truckload of arm-swinging shoutalongs, there's just such a lack of artifice with these dudes that they ended being even weirder than consciously weird bands. During the simmering chorus of "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues", Fallon howls, "I've always loved Tom Petty songs and driving old men crazy." Let's face it-- that's somehow a lot more surprising of an admission than Craig Finn's crit-bait toast to St. Joe Strummer.

There's no shortage of acts trying to cop a Bruce Springsteen pose, but the Gaslight forgo bombast or irony or even humor for Easter Bunny/Santa Claus fake-hagiography where the Boss is a guy who might still work at an auto body shop. But regardless of how much blue-collar charm Gaslight exude, The '59 Sound is still a Valvoline-slick, modernly compressed record that rarely packed the dramatic, dynamic punch these songs clearly deserve. Which is why it was nice to hear "Great Expectations" and especially "Miles Davis & the Cool" rendered in the manner of four dudes from New Brunswick in a garage that couldn't look more amazed or grateful that they somehow got salvaged from another summer hanging out with Fat Mike. --Ian Cohen

Lykke Li

Just when you get to the top of the world, there’s always, always someone trying to get on your shit. Lykke Li has, as muse to Bjorn Ytterling of Peter Bjorn and John and Andreas Kleerup of Kleerup, has witnessed a bevy of Nordic pop princesses, including Annie and Robyn, pass through their well-adjusted hands, and has been given space to make her own play on the game. Li responds to the sentiment by rejecting the hard-pop-girl approach but also by recasting Annie’s ocean of loss into a chanteuse role that her fellow Swedes often eschew.To see Lykke Li toss off her slightly proper pronunciation of "Dance Dance Dance" (thus coming off as "Dahnce Dahnce Dahnce") while actually playing the kazoo hanging from her necklace and clanging on a nearby cymbal-- this, this feather-haired girl in black hot pants was in charge of her own fate Sunday at Coachella. You can't fake Lykke Li's pizzazz. Even Robyn came to Coachella to watch this set (ok, and guest with Peter Bjorn and John.) --Mike Orme

Snuggie doesn't have shit on PB&J when it comes to bringing the warm & fuzzy-- not just with "Young Folks", but all of the still-great Writer's Block, a record entirely about various phases of relationshipping. Unless you married the first person you were ever sexually attracted to, Writer's Block had a song that you could relate to at some point. And while it's not unusual for a band to follow up a cuddly hit with something more difficult and knotty, PB&J preceded their biggest American show to date with Living Thing, a record that ascribes to a damn-near Dischord-esque adherence to the idea that the customer is always wrong.

For the first 10 minutes, they performed in a skeletal set-up of primitive drum pads, brittle synths, and bass that was used more for blunt force than low-end or funk. The crowd stayed perfectly still (save for a waving Swedish flag) until "Lay It Down", the song's antagonizing "shut the fuck up"/ "you've already had enough" hook sparking some sense of recognition. That's the kind of record Living Thing is: The hookiest songs are also the most annoying. Lykke Li and Robyn were brought to the stage to help out on "Nothing To Worry About", but even they only managed to put a face to the"D.A.N.C.E." kiddie chorus. (It's also worth noting that the crowd seemed to have absolutely no idea who Robyn was, which should be at the very least a decent reminder that internet presence doesn't always translate to real-world recognition.)

Not surprisingly, the best reception halfway through the set was given to a terribly sluggish rendition of "Amsterdam", but once Peter made the announcement that the bongos were making their way to the stage, you'd think Coachella offered half-priced beer. Yeah, they did the whistling, a concession PB&J failed to make for SXSW, and then rewarded those who stayed with "Objects of My Affection" and "Let's Call It Off". PB&J might equate their warm reception with familiarity, but the truth is, there's hardly one song from Writer's Block that just isn't better than anything from Living Thing. --Ian Cohen

"We're going to try something a little different today." Antony has lately been working with producer Matthew Herbert and here he debuted an evocative set. Herbert's sound tends to skew towards a Tin Pan Alley approach to electronic music, but this set exuded a more tribal jerk, with backing string section carrying off a desert drone. Antony claimed that the work with Herbert was inspired by the desire to create "something spicier for a sunny day," and while Coachella might not actually be the day of inspiration in question, Antony's performance wowed like he's been planning this for years. --Mike Orme

Karen O finds herself at this stage of the game both a role model and a sex symbol, and she balanced the two Sunday in a spangle-sequined gold top that, in the distance, served as a shiny beacon of her spitfire songs. She attempted to reach the mic into the crowd a couple of times, but they wouldn't quite oblige with sing-alongs-- guess YYYs have a level of success to aspire to. The band did get a huge reception-- a collective sitting up of roughly 15,000 slightly bored semifans-- for "Maps", the band's hit and pretty much best song.

As the handheld cameraman followed up on her every hand movement for display on the JumboTron, their signature element of little stabs of guitar and synth spicing up cold rock songs churning, you've gotta wonder at how O has cultivated this whole mysterious niche for herself, the sexy rock star who doesn't need to show her face, the smart woman who doesn't say anything to the camera outside of her music. --Mike Orme

Devendra Banhart

Did you think Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon was a drag? If so, I suppose you're in the minority, if Devendra Banhart's rapturously received Coachella performance was any indication. For better or worse, once you're in with the more…chemically-inclined festival-goer (we'll refrain from the "h" word, whether it end in "-pie" or "-ster"), you're in, and Banhart's audience spilled out of the Gobi tent like a poorly constructed gyro amidst the weekend's thickest clouds of marijuana smoke I experienced all weekend-- and I saw Spearhead's set.

Granted, it's pretty much been all downhill since those precocious Rejoicing In The Hands days, but there's no doubt this guy knows what his crowd wants him to be. After the easy-going, two-chord sway of "Hey Mama Wolf", Devendra announced he was going to play a new untitled "pop" song from a yet-untitled album and suggested the crowd get themselves a coconut juice to enjoy it. One girl with a pixie haircut and tribal face paint to another: "Oh my god, he is amazing." Was it a catchy song? I suppose. Did it sound suspiciously like the Long Beach Dub All-Stars? Hell, you don't turn into G. Love overnight, I suppose. But hey, you can't knock people who want to enjoy his indie take on Laurel Canyon psychedelia (his drummer wore a "Fletch" Lakers jersey!), unless they decide to consider genius in Zappa-if-he-gave-up stuff like "Shabop Shalom", which is a strong contender for worst song of the decade. --Ian Cohen

After years of collective hoping and dreaming, My Bloody Valentine finally made it to Coachella for a reunion appearance. A number of Cure devotees had somehow never heard of the band and received their introduction seat-of-pants style with MBV's loudness, but many listeners geeked out not only to the Loveless stuff but also to the more obscure EP deep cuts. Bilinda Butcher still sings like she just got woken for that storied midnight recording session and Kevin Shields looks like a kid who hasn't had to walk around outdoors in a while. The band brought out the noisy finale of "You Made Me Realise" for a good 15 minutes, not bringing the levels quite up to "earsplitting" but strumming judiciously nonetheless. It was a towering performance from a band that's given the world a second chance to experience themselves. Please avail yourself of the opportunity to see them. --Mike Orme

We never know what to expect from Throbbing Gristle, who are a band who tends to aim where culture ain't. One thing we didn't bet on is a return to TG's jones for big bass. Genesis P-Orridge showed up in full on Millionaire Matchmaker wigged and orange skirted pandrogynous attire, boobs wildly splayed like pointing fingers, while Sleazy from Coil plucked away at synthesizers and laptops in the background, attired in a sort of noncommittal cow costume. Their set consisted of a lot of Gen going "ahhhhAHHHHHahhhh" to the general nonplussedness of Cosey on guitar, but struck a chord in its fealty to big bass and synthesized noise.

Although they seem dedicated to the proposition that music is a farce and needs to be taken down at any cost, Throbbing Gristle still take a decidedly middlecore position on big 808 beats and Coachella soundsystems, and their set ended up lulling rather than threatening. The way to close out Coachella: a brilliant sell-out reunion show from a band for whom selling out and having reunions is elevated to some sort of high art form. --Mike Orme

At first, I questioned whether having the Cure close out Coachella 2009 was the best idea-- even with a living freakin' Beatle in the lineup, there was still a sense of "Is this it?" upon the realization that the Cure was indeed the headlining band. Throughout the weeks leading up to the festival, there was rampant speculation about the Prince-style surprise that needed to be pulled-- Springsteen? Green Day? My favorite rumor was one perpetrated by Robyn, suggesting that Michael Jackson was going to shock the world and show up for Saturday night.

But in the end, it kind of worked out perfectly, the Cure being a great way to end what was for the most part the most low-key Coachella in a long time. Sporting a strangely pared lineup (if there was a keyboardist, I couldn't see it), the show started with 4:13 Dream's lead track, "Underneath the Stars" and preceded with some surprisingly deep cuts-- maybe the kind of thing that would make casual observers think twice about getting that last beer before attempting the drive back to Tempe or Los Angeles or wherever.

Then again, these guys have been doing it for decades (just take a look at 'em…or don't), so they know how to ration out the goods. I don't have the numbers on hand, but I'll bet the Cure managed to play a longer set than Prince did last year, and when you figure he spent at least an hour introducing his band (it's Sheila E. and Morris Day, you make those concessions), that's not an easy thing to do. It was awesome in obvious ways-- time has done nothing to dilute the majesty of "Play for Today" or "Pictures of You" or "Lovesong" or "Just Like Heaven". And it was awesome in not-so-obvious ways: If Robert Smith had more Macca in him, judging from Friday's kinda-mawkish performance, he'd have rejiggered his most famous song to be "Sunday, I'm In Love". For a festival that tended to ebb and flow with low-key pleasures, it was about as fitting of a curtain closer as I could imagine. --Ian Cohen